


Person of Pinterest

by Kithri



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-28
Updated: 2013-10-29
Packaged: 2017-12-30 18:08:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1021786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kithri/pseuds/Kithri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even a group such as theirs needs to have hobbies.</p><p>*Especially* a group such as theirs needs to have hobbies.</p><p>Even if the Machine has to make sure of this personally.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

[Episode 1 - Pilot]

STRESS-PATTERNS IDENTIFIED

Joss Carter sits alone in an office, poring over a mess of files and papers. Her desk is an island of light in an otherwise darkened room.

VIOLENCE IMMINENT

Sam Shaw strides rapidly down a busy street, moving against the flow of pedestrian traffic. Eyes narrowing, she starts to reach into her jacket.

SOLUTION DETERMINED

Harold Finch looks into the camera, his eyebrows raised and a telephone handset pressed to his ear. "What do you mean: hobbies?"

IMPLEMENTING 'PINTEREST PROTOCOL'

 

* * * * *

[Nexus company headquarters, Harold Finch's office]

The office is a love letter to Victoriana, even down to the wood and metal cases housing the numerous computer monitors arranged on the desk.

The camera pans slowly over the scrupulously neat space, coming to rest on the closed door. After a moment or two, the door opens, and a slightly harried looking man in a tweed suit steps through. His image is enclosed in a yellow rectangle.

When the door is firmly closed behind him, Harold Finch can't help letting out a quiet sigh. He manages to resist the urge to sag wearily against the door, though -- one has to have standards, after all, even in private.

Well, in relative privacy.

Today has been... taxing. But then, he muses, hanging his coat and scarf on the stand by the door. (He does prefer a proper stand, rather than merely having hooks on the wall; it's far more aesthetically pleasing.) Aren't they all, these days?

Indulging in another quiet sigh, he limps over to his desk.

The camera moves with him, zooming in on his face to catch the minute wince that flickers over his features as he stiffly sits down.

A moment passes.

There's an old-fashioned rotary phone on Harold's desk, a spindly thing of brass and wood. It rings, suddenly. Loudly.

Harold doesn't start, exactly, but he turns sharply to face it. He lets it ring twice before reaching out to answer it.

"Yes?" he says, his tone clipped and precise. As he listens to the voice on the other end, a frown forms on his face, starts to deepen. "I don't understand," he says, slowly. "Are you benching my team?" He listens for a little longer and his eyebrows shoot up almost to his hairline. He looks up into the camera, enunciating his next words slowly and clearly.

"What do you mean: hobbies?"

 

* * * * *

No one knows who built the Machine. No one knows how long ago it first became... aware. But it's been studying us all this time, learning our foibles and our quirks; all the things that make us human.

Maybe it's begun to know us better than we know ourselves.

 

ANALYSING DATA...

ANALYSING DATA...

STRESS-PATTERNS IDENTIFIED

VIOLENCE IMMINENT

PROCESSING...

PROCESSING...

SOLUTION DETERMINED

IMPLEMENTING 'PINTEREST PROTOCOL'

 

* * * * *

 

[Meeting room 7A, Nexus company Headquarters]

John Reese pauses in the doorway for a moment, glancing quickly around the room.

Naturally, Finch is already present and correct, seated at the head of the table with a laptop in front of him. John is amused, but unsurprised, to note that the laptop is lined up neatly with the edge of the desk. He thinks about saying something, but then his attention is caught by the projection screen on one wall. It usually shows an overview of the team's latest assignment, but at the moment it simply has the title: 'Performance optimisation in field teams: Downtime activities as a tool for minimising job-related stresses.'

Interesting, he muses. And not at all what he was expecting. Still, the one constant of this job is that every day seems to bring something different. No doubt Harold -- in his own, inimitable way -- will soon explain everything.

"Good morning, Harold," he says softly as he enters the room and takes his seat. He nods towards the projection screen. "What's this all about?"

"Good morning, Mr Reese." Finch glances up briefly and then returns his attention to his laptop. "I'll explain when the others get here. It shouldn't be long now."

As if on cue, the sound of voices comes from the corridor outside. Moments later, Joss Carter and Zoe Morgan enter the room. As always, John can't help but be a little impressed at the way Zoe manages to look like she's just stepped off a runway in Milan, rather than having been up most of the night taking point on a tense hostage negotiation.

Even 'the man in the suit' looks rumpled from time to time, but somehow, Zoe never does.

"Why the meeting?" Carter wants to know, barely even waiting until greetings have been exchanged. "Do we have a new assignment?"

"Not precisely," says Finch, and John could swear the man sounds a little uncomfortable. "I'll explain when everyone gets here."

"Do you know what this is about?" Zoe asks John, softly.

He shakes his head. "You know as much as I do."

Lionel Fusco arrives next, still limping a little from yesterday's fall. Still, John muses, it could have been worse. Another couple of inches, and Fusco would've missed the ledge altogether. They'd've had to scrape him up with a spatula. From Fusco's manner -- bluff, brazen and twice as hearty as usual -- he's all-too aware of how close he came to lights-out.

"What's this crap?" he wants to know, gesturing belligerently at the screen. "You're not going to make us get in touch with our feelings and confront our own mortality and shit, are you?"

Harold gives a small sigh. "No, Detective Fusco, that was not my intention. As I have said *repeatedly*, I will explain what this is about when everyone is here. As you can see, we are still waiting for Miss Shaw, so please have a little patience."

John checks his watch. Still two minutes to go before Shaw is officially late. Not that he'd blame her if she is. Even he had trouble getting out of bed this morning, and he wasn't the one who got shot.

"Hey."

Shaw's voice comes, not from the doorway, but from somewhere at the back of the room.

Naturally.

John suppresses a smile as he turns to look. He's just in time to see what had looked like a perfectly ordinary section of wall sliding smoothly closed behind her. 'Interesting. Must have missed that one.' He makes a mental note to check it out after the meeting.

"Glad you could join us, Miss Shaw. Please, take a seat." Finch waits while she does so, and then continues. "I know you're all wondering what this is about, so I'll try to be brief."

"Amen to that," Fusco mutters.

Harold shoots him a disapproving glance, but doesn't admonish him verbally.

"As you all know, the past few months have been an exceptionally busy time for us. Not only that, but some of our assignments have been rather trying."

"Aren't they all?" Carter interjects.

"That's as may be, but Management has started to become concerned about the effect this may be having on our emotional and mental stability."

John can't help rolling his eyes. Carter snorts loudly.

"I knew it!" Fusco proclaims, shaking his head. "They're gonna make us have more of those goddamn useless so-called counselling sessions, aren't they?"

"No. Well, yes. Your individual and group schedules should be on your calendars shortly, as a matter of fact. But I'm afraid that's not all."

John has a sudden sense of foreboding. A quick glance around at the others shows that he's not the only one. Zoe catches his eye, flashing a wry smile.

"Well, don't keep us in suspense, Harold," she says softly. "What has Management come up with this time?"

"If I can draw your attention to the projection screen for a moment..." When he's certain they've all read the title, he taps a key to bring up the next slide.

It takes John a moment to make sense of all the bullet points and citations. He frowns.

"Management wants us to take up extracurricular activities?"

"Simply, yes." There's a joint murmuring of protest in response to this, led largely by Fusco, but Finch just raises his voice a little, talking over the babble. "To that end, I have been tasked with setting up a..." he hesitates, like he's searching for the right word.

Fusco takes advantage of the pause.

"This is bullshit," he says. "What, Management thinks taking up golf or fishing is gonna make up for things like nearly falling to my death? Or getting shot in the ass? What, did someone read one too many self-help books? How are they even gonna enforce this? Are they expecting us to include a 'what I did in my down-time' section in our AARs?"

John very carefully *doesn't* look at any of the ever-present cameras.

"When am I supposed to have time to take up a hobby?" Carter wants to know. "Between my day-job and our *current* extra-curricular activities, I'm rushed off my feet as it is! If I have any spare time at all, I'd rather spend it with Tyler. You know, my *son*? Who's probably starting to forget what his mom looks like?"

"I have hobbies."

Everyone turns to look at Shaw, who bears the scrutiny with a flat, level gaze.

"What hobbies?" Zoe asks curiously.

"Freelance assignments. Sex. Weapons training." She leans back in her seat. "Not necessarily in that order."

Finch takes advantage of the resulting silence to continue his speech.

"*As* I was saying, I have been tasked with setting up a, let's call it a club." He pronounces the word with a minute grimace of distaste. "Management has allocated and equipped a space for us to use. It can accommodate a wide range of interests and activities. *Appropriate* activities, that is," he amends. "We are to meet there weekly, unless assignments intervene, although you are encouraged to make use of the facilities whenever you wish."

There's another babble of protest from the group. John holds his tongue, curious to see how it all shakes out. If Management wants this, he has a shrewd suspicion that there's no point wasting his breath in arguing. Better to put that effort to use figuring out a way around it.

"Attendance is mandatory," Finch says sternly. "Trust me, I don't like this any more than you, but Management have made their wishes clear. Anyone who doesn't attend, without having a valid reason for doing so, will not be permitted to go out on assignments." He puts his hands up, visually abdicating responsibility. "If you don't like it, take it up with Management."

"Glad to," Carter fires back. "What are their names again? Office numbers? Give me a contact number and I'll ring them myself."

Mentally, John salutes her. It won't work, of course, but he doesn't blame her for trying. God knows he was the same before Finch let him in on the secret.

"I will, of course, be happy to pass on a message for you," Finch says dryly. "In the meanwhile, the appointment should have been added to your calendars. If you have any specific requests for equipment or activities, please ask. Management would like to assure you that they will do their best to accommodate all reasonable requests."

"Gun range," says Shaw.

"As I said: all reasonable requests."

"There a stocked river in that 'allocated space,' Finch?" Fusco asks, sounding resigned. "There was a reason I mentioned fishing."

"I'll see what I can do, Detective Fusco. I understand that Management is also considering group field trips. Perhaps that is something you can request."

"You try to make me do team-building exercises, someone's going to get shot." From her tone of voice, Shaw could be commenting on the weather.

Finch stares at her for a moment, like he's trying to figure out whether or not she's serious. John gives it even odds. In the end, Finch nods.

"I will certainly pass that on." He takes a deep breath. "Right. If you would please return your attention to the screen, here's a list of the activities and facilities currently on offer..."

John glances over the list, but his thoughts are elsewhere, turning over this latest piece in the puzzle that is the Machine. He knows it's always watching, always learning, but this is a bit more sophisticated than predicting acts of violence. Misguided, maybe, but still.

Sophisticated.

John is curious to see how this will turn out.

He just hopes Shaw doesn't end up shooting somebody.


	2. Chapter 2

[Activity room 1A, Nexus company headquarters]

"For the last time, Shaw, casting bullets does not count as a recreational activity."

Joss can't hold back a smile at the long-suffering expression on Harold's face. Sam is looking distinctly mutinous. Which, Joss reflects, is a distinct improvement on 'homicidal,' if not as far removed from it as she would prefer.

"You said no to the gun range," Sam points out. "And no one will spar with me."

"That's because you fight dirty, Shaw," John chips in, a slight smile hovering around the corners of his mouth.

Sam shrugs. "I fight to win."

"I think that's what I said."

"Miss Shaw," Harold breaks in. "We have been over this many, many times. Management's ruling is absolutely unequivocal: combat-related activities are not permitted in this club."

"But-"

"That is the end of it, Miss Shaw!" Finch is starting to sound flustered, his eyes darting around in that way they tend to do when he's at the end of his patience.

Amusing as this is to watch, maybe it's time someone stepped in.

"Come on, Shaw," Joss says, grinning. She doesn't go so far as to take Sam's arm -- she has more of a survival instinct than that -- but she moves closer to the other woman, gesturing towards the arts and crafts corner. "I'll teach you how to knit."

The expression on Sam's face is more than worth it.

"You can knit, Carter?" Fusco asks, disbelievingly. "What, a gun cosy?"

Joss rolls her eyes.

"Yeah, Fusco. A gun cosy. I've got a whole shelf full of 'em back home." She glares at him, and then smiles suddenly.

"What?" he asks, looking worried.

"Just for that, I'm going to teach you, too. Come on." She grabs him by the elbow, dragging him along behind her like an errant tugboat as she strides across the room.

"But-"

"No arguments," she says, firmly. "And, Shaw, don't you even *think* of trying to sneak off."

There's a moment's silence, and then: "How did you know?"

"It's my superpower. I call it 'mom-sense'."

"You are *not* my mother, Carter," Sam practically growls, but Joss doesn't need to look at her to know she's wearing that faint, lopsided smile of hers.

"Then don't make me act like it."

She releases the grumbling Fusco and starts perusing the racks of knitting needles and yarn. There's quite an impressive selection, together with a number of patterns to suit a whole range of skill levels. Apparently Management really were serious about kitting this place out properly.

"Fine," Sam mutters, her voice suddenly coming from right behind Joss, who just about manages not to start in surprise. She never even heard Sam move. "Show me this stupid knitting of yours. But afterwards, we're going to get *wasted*."

"Why wait?" Zoe murmurs, sounding pleased with herself as she clicks over on heels that make Joss' feet hurt just to look at them. She brandishes a bag that clinks promisingly. "Some of us came prepared."

"Hope you're planning to share," Carter mutters.

"Naturally."

"You got any non-girly booze in there?" Sam wants to know.

"Beer, vodka and tequila. Plus some decent wine for those of us who aren't total barbarians."

"I'm not sure all this alcohol a good idea," Harold says, looking concerned.

"I don't know, Finch," John murmurs. "I could do with a beer." Without a word, Zoe reaches into the bag and hands him a bottle. "Thanks."

"You're welcome," she says, smiling. "Can someone bring that table over?"

"On it," Sam says, suiting the action to the words.

Zoe sets out various bottles, plus a packet of disposable glasses. Some tiny packets of peanuts and pretzels, like the kind they hand out on aeroplanes. (Sam immediately snags a packet of peanuts, tearing it open with her teeth and practically tipping the whole thing down her throat.) And... a cheeseboard?

"You really did come prepared," Joss observes.

"Someone had to."

"I'll speak to Management about catering for next time," Harold says distractedly. "But I still don't think it would be wise for us to consume all this alcohol."

"Relax, Finch," Sam says, around a mouthful of peanuts. "We're off the clock right now. And the odds of me shooting someone just went down. A lot."

"That's something, I suppose."

"So, are you three going to join our little knitting circle?" Joss asks Zoe, John and Harold.

"Might as well," Zoe says brightly. "I'm pretty terrible at it, though."

"That's okay," Joss confides. "I'm not exactly great at it myself. But I'm good enough to show you all the basics."

She looks at John, who shrugs.

"This is where the booze is."

"Fair enough." She turns to Harold, raising an eyebrow. "I would've thought something like chess would be more your scene. Or the books over there."

He sighs deeply, looking distinctly disgruntled. "Management, in their infinite wisdom, have strongly suggested that I indulge in something less cerebral than my usual pursuits." He casts a longing glance towards the bookshelves, and then turns back to her. "I suppose knitting is as good a choice as anything else."

He doesn't *say* that's because he's fully expecting to hate whatever he tries, but the message comes across loud and clear. Oddly, it's actually a little comforting to know that Management are jerking Harold around on this just as much as the rest of them. It makes her feel like they really are all in it together.

Hell, maybe that's the point of this little exercise.

"Okay, then," Joss says. She snags a beer for herself, turning down Zoe and Sam's offers of wine and vodka, respectively. "Everyone get yourself settled." While they're doing that, she starts handing out sets of knitting needles, rolling her eyes as Sam immediately starts testing their grip and balance. "They're not for stabbing, Shaw," she drawls.

"The night is still young," Shaw mutters, but she seems much more relaxed than she was earlier. It's probably going to be okay.

Probably.

Joss makes a mental note to keep an eye on her.

"Let's start with something simple. I'm thinking scarves. Is that okay with everyone?" The responses range from apathetic to genial, which is probably as good as she's going to get. She shrugs inwardly. "Okay, what colour yarn do you all want?"

"Black," Sam says immediately.

No one seems overly surprised.

Harold and John both pick blue, Zoe goes for red and Fusco chooses green. For herself, Joss selects a rich purple. She settles into her seat and looks around the circle, dredging up her memories of her first lessons with Grams, all those years ago.

She takes a deep breath.

"Alright, then. Let's get started."

 

* * * * *

 

[Activity room 1A, Nexus company headquarters]

You could definitely do some damage with these needles, Shaw muses. And, bonus, they're innocuous enough that she can carry them around with her. As long as she carries some yarn around with them.

She eyes the scarf starting to take shape between her needles. It seems adequate. Neat and even; no obvious dropped stitches. She's supposes that means she's good at this. She figured she would be. It's only manual dexterity after all, and it's not like it's anywhere near as difficult as stitching up a bullet wound on her own body.

She makes a mental note to remember to replenish her first aid supplies. Luckily, the infirmary here at Nexus is always pretty well stocked. She'll pay it a visit before she leaves here.

Examining her knitting again, she searches inside herself for some sign of pride in her work. Maybe even a sense of achievement at creating something with her own two hands.

Nope, not a thing.

She isn't surprised.

She doesn't really care, either. She was just curious.

She also feels like a drink, so she sets her knitting aside and reaches for the tequila.

"Miss Shaw," Harold starts to say, pursing his lips, but she stares at him flatly until he sits back in his seat, muttering: "Never mind."

People always seem to get nervous when she looks at them like that.

Good. They should be.

The tequila hits the spot, burning all the way down. Just the way she likes it. She half-closes her eyes, savouring the sensation.

Carter is watching her when she resurfaces. She does that sometimes.

That's okay, Shaw sometimes watches her as well. Watches the way she carries herself, the way she moves, all confidence and grace. Like she knows how to take care of herself and she isn't afraid to let it show.

It's pretty damn hot.

Shaw feels her lips tighten in what's technically a smile. She picks up the tequila bottle again and holds it out to Carter; an unspoken challenge.

Carter will accept or she won't; no skin off Shaw's nose either way. More for Shaw if she doesn't, anyway. But Carter smiles back, takes the tequila from Shaw's hand and swigs it right from the bottle.

Shaw feels her smile widen. When Carter hands the bottle back, Shaw follows her example, holding her eyes the whole time she swallows fire.

Fusco's saying something, but it isn't important.

Carter breaks eye contact to answer him and, somehow, that is.

"Stop whining, Fusco," Carter says. "You weren't drinking it anyway."

"I might've had some later. If you two hadn't gotten your germs all over it."

"It is quite unsanitary," Harold mutters.

"Well, don't drink it then."

"Oh, no fear of that, Detective Carter, I assure you."

"You can't have it, anyway," says Shaw. "It's mine." Carter quirks an eyebrow at her. "Ours," she amends. "Get your own."

"Fine, whatever," he mutters, looking down. "I'll just stick to beer."

That sounds like a victory to Shaw.

Satisfied, she sets the bottle down between herself and Carter, idly picking up her knitting again.

Maybe this hobby club thing isn't going to be so bad after all.

Maybe.

 

* * * * *

 

[Activity room 1A, Nexus company headquarters]

"I think I've got more knots and holes here than scarf," Zoe says, laughing, as she holds up her rather sad-looking creation. It turns out that she is just as bad at knitting as she remembered. Luckily, her enjoyment of this knitting circle is completely independent of any actual skill she may or may not have with the craft.

It might have a little something to do with the wine she's consumed, though.

Joss looks over and grins.

"Looks like you're knitting a doily there, Morgan."

"Yes!" She winks at Joss. "A doily, that's it. I meant to do that."

"Of course you did," John murmurs, looking amused in that understated way of his. Interestingly, infuriatingly, he seems to be a natural at this knitting lark, having already completed several sections without a single dropped stitch that she can see. And they're all the same width, even! The edges of her sc- *doily* wander in and out like a drunk snail.

Okay, maybe she's not *completely* unbothered by her complete inability to knit. Maybe it would have been nice to have been just a little better at it than John.

Not that she's competitive.

"I want to hear the rest of the story," Sam breaks in. "It sounded like you were just getting to the good bit."

"Right, sorry." She frowns in thought. "Where was I?"

"The yacht," Joss supplies.

"Oh, yes. The yacht. So, we'd just gotten underway. And so had the yacht."

"Morgan!"

"What?" She bestows her most innocent smile on Fusco. He doesn't seem mollified.

"Do you mind?"

"No, not particularly." She winks at him, and then continues her story. "Things were going pretty well. The moonlight was streaming through the windows; the waves were lapping gently at the sides of the boat. There was music in the air."

"How poetic," Harold murmurs.

Zoe gives him a startled glance. She hadn't realised he was paying attention, having assumed from his distant expression that he was either concentrating on his knitting, or working out some esoteric mathematical equation in his mind. Or both.

"Literal, actually," she adds, dryly. "There was an opera theatre across the bay, and the wind happened to be in the right direction."

"Boring," says Shaw. She knocks back another tequila, slamming the plastic shot glass down on the table with a satisfied sigh. (Zoe was particularly pleased that she managed to find disposable shot glasses.) "So, was this guy any good?"

"Reasonably satisfactory," Zoe says thoughtfully, ignoring the faces Fusco's pulling. She grins wickedly at Joss and Sam. "He could take instruction well, too."

"Well, that's something," Joss observes, laughing.

Shaw shakes her head.

"I don't have the patience for that," she says. "If I'm looking to get off, I just want to get off. I don't want to have to teach someone what to do."

"I don't want to hear this," Fusco says.

Joss snorts. "But you were happy to tell us *all* about that model you claimed was all over you."

"She was! But that was different?"

"Why?" Sam actually sounds genuinely curious.

"Well, because... because..." Fusco looks frantically at John, but finds no help there.

"Because what, Fusco?" He sounds amused, his lips curling upwards ever-so-slightly and his eyes crinkling at the edges. She's come to learn that, in anyone else, this would be uproarious laughter.

(Zoe is relieved to see him reacting with amusement rather than annoyance. Not that she would have expected anything like jealousy. It's not as if they're anything like exclusive, after all. But still. It's nice to have it confirmed.)

"Because I'm a guy!"

Zoe and Joss look at each other and burst out laughing.

"What, you think women don't talk about sex?" Joss asks, wiping at her eyes.

"Not like guys do," he says. "I thought women were supposed to be all about the feelings and shit. I mean, it's not like you see some guy walking down the street wearing tight jeans and make a comment about his ass. Is it?"

"I do," Shaw says. Her utter deadpan expression sets Zoe off laughing again.

"Oh, Fusco, Fusco, Fusco," Joss hiccups between giggles. "You're so sweet sometimes."

"Detective," Harold says, smiling faintly. "I suggest you quit while you're behind."

"But- Oh, fine," he says, huffily. "Just forget I said anything."

"Already done, Lionel," Zoe says sweetly. He gives her a sour look. "Alright," she continues. "In honour of the detective's delicate sensibilities, I'll skip over the bedroom activities and get right to the other kind of action." She pauses, looking around the circle. "I think it was Raymond Chandler who said that if his novels ever seemed like they were slowing down, he would have a guy burst through the door with a gun. Well, apparently someone up there decided to apply the same maxim to my life. One moment, everything was fine. The next, two armed men burst through the door."

"What kind of guns did they have?" Shaw wants to know.

"Big ones. I wasn't really in any fit state to notice anything more than that."

"Were they about this big?" Shaw puts her knitting down and holds her hands apart. "Slung low and held two-handed?"

Zoe racks her memory. "I... think so?"

"Probably submachine guns. MP5s, maybe. Or Veresks. There seem to be a lot of those around at the moment."

"There's a glut of Veresks on the market currently," John observes, interestedly. "Someone's apparently got connections in the Russian military."

"I know," says Shaw, animatedly. "I've been thinking about getting one. See how it handles."

"You should visit-" John starts to say, but Harold interrupts.

"I think that's enough weapons talk for now," he says admonishingly. "We're supposed to be relaxing and having fun."

"Weapons talk *is* relaxing and fun," says Shaw.

"Hmm." Harold seems dubious. "Well, maybe you should let Miss Morgan finish her story before you start comparing notes about all the many ways you have of killing people."

"It's a date," says John.

"Fine," Shaw says. She turns to look expectantly at Zoe.

"The next few moments were somewhat chaotic," Zoe says. "They started with the usual: hands-up, don't move. That sort of thing. I didn't point out that their orders were somewhat contradictory. Once that was settled, they started questioning my date."

"So they were after him, not you?" Joss asks.

"For once, yes. Specifically, they were after his bank accounts."

"I assume this was an inside job?" Harold asks.

"Naturally. His personal assistant. The man had staffed the yacht with his hired goons. Apparently, their plan was to force my date to give them access to his accounts, so they could drain them. I don't think they'd really thought things through beyond that."

"Amateurs," says Harold.

"Indeed."

"So, what happened?" asks John, softly.

"Apparently my date's accounts had already been drained. By him, to keep up his lavish lifestyle. Basically, he was broke. The would-be thieves did not like that at all. They almost put a bullet in his head right then and there."

"I assume you convinced them not to," John says, dryly.

"You assume correctly," she replies, favouring him with a smile. "Better than that, I convinced them I was an heiress whose obscenely wealthy father would pay a hefty ransom for my safe return. I even told them my dear, fictitious father would pay extra if they also returned my boytoy intact."

Joss raises an eyebrow.

"Boytoy? Just how young was this guy?"

"Oh, mid-twenties or so. Not too young." Zoe can't help smirking a little, not least because she's pretty sure that the expression will make Fusco splutter.

It does.

"I don't know how you find the energy," Joss mutters.

"Yoga, clean-living and a healthy diet," she says sweetly. "Anyway, to get back to the story, they called 'daddy' to make their demands. From my phone."

There's a collective wince from the rest of the group.

"Amateurs," mutters Harold again, sounding disgusted.

"Idiots," is Sam's assessment.

"And 'daddy' was?" Joss asks, curiously.

"My security service," Zoe says, sweetly. "Who, of course, played along with the ruse. And demanded to speak with me for proof of life." She shrugs. "From that point it was, if you'll pardon the pun, more or less plain sailing. The hardest part was stopping my date from blowing the whole thing before the team reached us. And making him keep his head down when they got there." She smiles around at the rest of the group. "So, that's the story of how I had to negotiate with kidnappers dressed in nothing but a sheet. I hope it lived up to your expectations."

"Needed more violence," Shaw says, matter-of-factly. "And sex."

"I'll bear that in mind for next time," Zoe says sardonically.

"Good."

"Alright," Joss says briskly. "Who's next? John, how about you?"

Zoe already knows what John's response is going to be. Sure enough, he's already shaking his head.

"Not me. I'm just not that interesting. But I bet Finch has a story or too to tell."

"What?" Harold blinks owlishly, his expression not unlike that of a deer caught in headlights. "No, I don't think, I mean-"

"I'll go next," says Fusco.

"You?" Joss says.

"Yeah. What, you don't think I have any stories about being caught with my pants down? Metaphorically, I mean."

"No, I didn't doubt it," Shaw says flatly.

Fusco glowers at her.

"Thanks, Shaw. Alright, so, this was back when I was still a beat cop. Me and my partner Kenny had just gone to grab some lunch..."

 

* * * * *

 

[Activity room 1A, Nexus company headquarters]

Lionel clambers slowly to his feet, yawning. Good job I'm not driving, he thinks, contentedly, enjoying the pleasant fuzziness of a good beer buzz. He checks his watch and is startled to realise that it's almost one am. Smiling ruefully to himself, he shakes his head.

Ain't no way I'm telling anyone else about this, he thinks. Especially not anyone on the force. I'd be a laughing stock. A late night knitting circle? Such a party animal, Lionel. You sure know how to have a good time.

And yet, despite it all, he actually did have a good time this evening. Not the knitting, so much, but the rest of it. The drinking and relaxing and shooting the breeze. It was kinda nice.

(Although, and he's really, definitely, *absolutely* never going to tell this to another living soul, there was actually something oddly relaxing about the steady motion of the knitting needles in his hands. And when he discovered, against all expectations -- and after a few false starts -- that he could actually do it; that he could knit? Well, maybe he did feel just a little bit proud of himself.)

It's funny, though. All this time he's been working with these people, bleeding with them, trusting them with his life, and this is the first time they've really just all sat around and socialised. It's something he wouldn't mind doing again.

Even if Shaw does scare the shit out of him sometimes.

 

* * * * *

 

[Main foyer, Nexus company headquarters]

The camera zooms in on the group of people standing near the doorway. They seem to be in the process of saying their goodbyes, preparatory to going their separate ways.

Well, perhaps not quite separate.

Zoe leans in to murmur into Reese's ear.

"Walk me home?"

"Of course," he replies. With a final goodbye to the others, the two of them head out into the night.

Fusco watches them go with a puzzled frown.

"You know," he says to Carter. "I think there might be something going on between those two. If you know what I mean."

Carter laughs.

"Yeah, Fusco. I know what you mean."

"Anyways, I'd better get going myself. I've got to get up in a few hours! See you when I see you." Whistling an off-key tune, he ambles out of the door.

"Detective Fusco makes a good point, Finch says. "It has gotten rather late." He fastens his coat, winding his scarf around his neck and settling his hat firmly on his head.

"I guess that's because we were all having so much fun," Carter says, smiling.

"I suppose so," Finch replies, slowly. He sounds surprised. "Well, goodnight ladies. I'll see you next week, if not before."

"Bye, Harold," says Joss. Shaw says nothing. She zips up her jacket, watching as Carter fastens her own coat.

Carter peers out into the darkness and pulls a face.

"Sounds cold and wet out there," she murmurs. The sound of wind is faintly audible on the recording, together with the rattle-slap of rain on glass.

"I still have the rest of the tequila," Shaw announces. "Help me finish it?"

Carter looks at her for a long moment. Shaw's expression doesn't change.

"Sure," she says, eventually. "Let's go."

Without another word, they leave the building.

 

ANALYSING DATA...

ANALYSING DATA...

INSUFFICIENT DATA

CONTINUING 'PINTEREST PROTOCOL'

 

* * * * *

 

{Next time}

Sam Shaw sprawls comfortably on a sofa with her headphones on, reading a magazine. The camera zooms in to reveal its title: Dance.

-

Zoe Morgan and Lionel Fusco face off over a substantial pile of poker chips. Fusco is frowning down at the cards in his hand, while Zoe is watching Fusco, a bland smile on her face.

"Are you feeling lucky, Lionel?"

-

John Reese dices an onion, his blade moving so fast it's almost a blur. He's wearing an apron that says 'Kiss the Cook.'

-

Joss Carter is seated before a computer, a dubious expression on her face, apparently playing a game of some sort.

-

The table is scattered with sheets of paper and brightly coloured polyhedrons. Harold Finch peers over a cardboard screen with what is, for him, a rather feral grin.

"Everybody, please roll for initiative."

 

[End of Episode 1]


End file.
